


The Sensual Argonian Shepherd

by Speaks_With_Bones



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Blood and Gore, Camonna Tong, House Hlaalu, Just fucking up every racist faction in morrowind really, Other, Slavery, Strong Language, Twin Lamps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 20:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speaks_With_Bones/pseuds/Speaks_With_Bones
Summary: I joked about writing a story about a sexy non-binary argonian that kills racists and give great massages, then I did drugs and wrote some of it. [wip, which means it'll never be finished, probably]. I will write a more serious description if I ever make it to part 3.





	1. Chapter 1

The Imperial captain approached the next prisoner in line, his eyes lazily scanning down his list as he read out the name. “Alvas” he hung for a moment, his disposition souring as he muttered the last name with distaste. “Dren.” He looked down at the scrawny, tattooed youth, who glared back with equal disdain. “You are lucky your father got you off.”  
“You are lucky my father doesn't have your balls on a serving dish, outlander,” the Dunmer bristled against his chains. There was little tooth behind his snarling though, his nervous eyes betray him.  
“Well, your father doesn't love you that much,” the captain said very matter-of-factly and returned to his paper. “You have been released from prison because The Imperial Legion has seen fit to commute your punishment. You will serve the Empire in no less than one fortnight of Legion service, or until the remainder of your fines have been repaid... I'm sure you know the drill by this point, yes?”   
The commander folded the paper and gestured to his assistant. She produced a battered scroll case and and what looked to be an enchanted bracer. She handed the scroll case to the captain and then knelt down besides the Dunmer boy. With one swift 'click' the device had snapped around his ankle.  
“What's this fetching thing?” Alvas sneered, taking a haphazard swipe at the commander's assistant. She paid him no heed as she stood once more at attention.   
“A little insurance, to make sure you're doing your duty, recruit,” the captain said, unable to hide a small amount of satisfaction in his tone despite his stoic face. “Not every man can be bought, you'd do well to let your father know that.” He smirked for only half a moment before resuming his debriefing. “There's a recall spell on that anklet calibrated to the Fort Moonmoth dungeon. If you fail to report in a timely manner, the privilege of your service will be rescinded and you will be serving the rest of your sentence in jail. Are we clear, recruit?”   
The young elf glowered at the Imperial, but said nothing. He attempted to match the other's practiced stoicism, but he was unable to hide the frenzied thoughts racing amok in his head. So father thought to teach him a lesson this time, hm? Feed his least favorite son to the Imperials to get them off his back? What a nix fucking fetcher. Sure, there's little love lost in the noble Dunmeri families between the House head and his underlings, but all of Vivec's tears couldn't fill the rift between Vedam Dren and his bastard.   
“Your first task is to deliver this sealed missive to Fort Pelagiad. There are no supply caravans heading that way, so you'll have to make the journey on foot.” The Imperial looked thoughtful for a moment and added, “You know the area well, I assume. It should take you no longer than a day to get there. The missive must arrive sealed. If you fail to deliver it in a timely manner, or if there's signs of tampering... well, I'll have them keep a cell warm for you.” The captain shoved the scroll case into the Dunmer's hands and gave him a curt nod. “You're dismissed.” 

Dismissed? Dismissed!? Who was that pompous, wheat-haired, dragon-humper to tell him, the son of the duke, that he was dismissed? He was well on his way out of Seyda Neen, still fuming about it as he followed the well worn path. Fresh ruts in the dirt told him that wagons had passed through here only a few hours ago. The captain had probably made him miss the cart ride on purpose too. What a spiteful, imperialist dog. He and all his wretched man-kind should be brought to heel!   
He continued to rage internally, his attention drifting from his surroundings as he stepped out of the swamps and into the decidedly less fetid Ascadian Isles region. It was land he knew all too well, land that was dotted with his father's assets. Fertile, profitable, if a bit legally dubious. What need did the Dunmer have for Imperial laws anyway? Morrowind was a rich land, a land their people had rightfully tamed! And now the Imperials were simply allowed to stride in and pluck up all the resources their ancestors had bled for?  
His footing faltered and snapped him rudely back to reality. The wheel tracks he had been following suddenly dug deep into the earth and veered off the road. Curiously he strayed from the path, peeking down into a nearby gully where the pulverized splinters of what was presumably a cart rested. Lying not too far away was a jumble of gore that was presumably, hopefully, the horse. Supplies and rations were scattered about in a most unusual fashion, and there was no sign of any Imperial escorts. A most bizarre sight.   
Alvas took a tentative step down into the gully. It wasn't terribly steep, and he supposed any supplies he could recover might go towards reducing the amount of time he was subjected to this disgrace. One step, two quick ones, a small hop, and he was safely at the bottom. He began idly grabbing packages of dried cheese, boxes of rivets, and other miscellaneous goods that could fit in the tiny sojourner's rucksack he'd been 'gifted' by the Legion. It seemed odd to him they didn't have any dried or spiced meats in their supply. It also seemed rather odd that the kwama hadn't set upon it yet. Well, unless of course there was another... larger... predator...around...  
Shit.  
Quickly he scooped what he had into his pack and began scrambling up the gully, panic and sweat starting to drench him through his traveling clothes. Shit. Shit. Shit. Short term gain had blinded him to the obvious yet again. He clamored back to the road and began striding at a brisk pace. Maybe whatever it was had moved on after eating the Imperials? He can't imagine man flesh would be easy on the guts of Morrowind's fauna, who's refined pallets were attuned to snacking on wayward Dunmer assaying through ditches. The thought of a a nix-hound with indigestion almost soothed his nerves.  
The guttural roar of the kagouti preceded its charge by only a second. Over one mer tall, with tusks like ship masts it sped towards the courier. He willed himself to move, to react, to do anything, but his body was frozen in terror. Everything seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched it take step after frenzied step, its claws shattering the earth, frothy saliva beading on its teeth and being tossed to the wind. Its eyes met his, and all he could see looking back at him was a consuming madness. The Blight.   
The tusk punched into his gut, splattering beast and elf alike in a coat of crimson. Then he felt the rest of the beast colliding into him with the crushing force of a dwemer colossus. He was dead. Maybe his brain hadn't caught up to his body yet, but he knew in an instant he was dead. That thing scrambled his insides like a kwama egg and all he did was stand there. It wasn't even an honorable way to go.   
His vision began to blurr, a mix of red and black swirling around as the feeling left his body. At least in his final moments he was too shocked to feel the pain. He retched as he collapsed, and his final lingering thoughts were on how it smelled an awful lot like netch gas...


	2. Chapter 2

Pain. That was the sensation. Before consciousness, before awareness, there was pain. A lot of it. Burning like a flaming spear through the abdomen and untenable throbbing all around it. He could be a living, breathing model of Deadlands in this state.  
But living and breathing still.  
His eyes snapped open with that realization. He was alive. That was inconceivable. Blighted beasts don't just NOT tear you limb from limb for sport. That was their favorite pass time! He tried to move, tried to sit up, but a firm hand held him down. As his eyes finally began to focus and process what he was seeing he instinctively recoiled from the reptilian visage looming over him.   
“Hands off me, n'wah!” Alvas snarled, though it came across more as gurgle as more blood and bile welled up in his throat. He turned his head to the side and spit derisively. “Get your filthy hands off me, s'wit!”  
The Argonian continued to patiently hold the Dunmer lad in place, their face completely apathetic to the sting of curses and slurs the Dren boy hurled at them. Rather, they opened their mouth, showing a massive, partially chewed ball of herbs. The lizard began to grab pieces of the herbal spit ball and gently massage it into the Dunmer's wound. To his surprise, Alvas saw that the injury was already looking greatly healed over, with more of the herbs packed into what was once a hole as big as his head.   
As the last of the leaves were dabbed into place, the Argonian nodded solemnly to the Dunmer. “Apologies, serjo. It was only my intention to help.”   
The polite address caught the young man off guard. He eyed the Argonian with hateful suspicion, but he couldn't deny he owed the thing his life. “You're awfully far from the plantations, slave. To whom do you belong?”   
The Argonian seemed unbothered by the question. They gestured subserviently to a large bull netch idly hovering over the corpse of the alpha kagouti. “I am a shepherd for the Dren estate. I herd the Master's netch to only the greenest pastures, and so I am permitted to travel outside the walls.”  
The manners, the un-accented Dunmeris, the grasp of slave-handling customs... this Argonian seemed dangerously savvy in the ways of their betters. Alvas tried to sit up, but the Argonian held a hand before him, careful to not touch him again without permission. The mere gesture managed to get the Dren lad to lay without protest. If this was a run-away slave preparing to get revenge against the House who had deprived him of his freedom, they were doing a terrible job at it.   
“Well... I shall thank... your master... for your service,” Alvas muttered through labored breaths as he grasped at his side. He was almost able to relax a moment when the dread hit him again. The scroll case!? Where was it!? He had it slung over his arm before the attack, doubtlessly he'd dropped it along with himself.   
“You humble me,” the Argonian started to speak before immediately being cut off by the panicking elf.  
“Scroll! I dropped a scroll! Where is it? Speak!” he hissed, tossing his head back and forth as he looked around frantically.   
The Argonian produced a more-battered-than-before scroll case, though the delicate seal over it seemed to have cracked away during the turmoil. “Is this what you were looking for, Muthsera?”   
“Give it here! Grimy lizard, did you open this? It was important,” he garggled and swiped weakly at the case.   
The Argonian regarded the busted up casing for a moment. “I apologize. I did not open this, I only noticed it after the fact. The contents still appear to be within it, however,” they set the case gingerly beside the Dunmer's head.   
“The seal! The seal on it had to be unbroken! Or else the Legion is going to string me up by the balls, don't you get it, you stupid scalebeast?”   
The Argonian was quiet once more. Several moments passed before they went to stand, then hesitated. “I may be able to repair you seal, if you will allow it.”   
Alvas still didn't trust the slavekin, but he was caught between the Legion and the House, with an Argonian apparently too stupid to hold him for ransom. “Whatever. The Legion will know it was tampered with, I'll just have to blame it on an ignorant savage,” he drawled, though when he looked up he noticed his companion had already vanished.   
Alvas drifted in and out of sleep. He couldn't be sure how long it had been, only that the sun was beginning to set. Time was not on his side. The hazy outline of the Argonian once again strode into his field of vision.  
“Apologies, I did not mean to wake you,” the Argonian said, voice barely above a whisper. Once again they produced the case, this time looking significantly less broken than before. Even the sealed end seemed to have been snapped back into place and perfectly re-sealed somehow. “I hope these repairs are sufficient.”   
“How did you-” Alvas blurted out, quickly catching himself thought and snatching the case back with a forceful yank. “How did you accomplish this?” he questioned with a slightly more professional tone.   
For the first time the Argonian seemed unwilling to answer, flinching slightly when confronted with the question.   
“I am bound not to tell falsehoods or riddles,” the Argonian stated plainly, giving the Dren a pleading look, as if to ask him to rephrase his request.  
The last cog of the clockwork city finally settled into place within Alvas's mind. He was rowdy, irreverent, and often afoul of trouble, but he was still a bright child. Slaves were, of course, incredibly restricted from doing magic or anything adjacent to the arcane arts, including and especially alchemy. It would be a trifling matter for an alchemist to concoct a potion that would allow him to slip his bonds, vanish entirely, or even poison his master! Of course, such things could also be used to revive a foolish Dunmer, chase the Blight from his veins, and restore his precious cargo.   
“A life for a life then,” Alvas said wearily, as if performing a great, selfless act. He waved a hand dismissively towards the healer, “By aiding me you have aided my family, yadda yadda, and so I grant you this boon on behalf of Vedam Dren Grandmaster of House Hlaalu, so on and so on, that your grievous violation shall be pardoned... this time.”  
“You are of the Dren family?” The Argonian asked, thought their tone never changed. It was hard enough to tell what those stone faced Legion types were thinking, but a whole sub-elven animal was something else. Their faces so expressionless, their words so stunted and literal, they were impossible to carry a conversation with. This one was no different.   
“Alvas Dren, son of the Duke himself,” he grumbled, half way between proud and half way between repulsed. He loved his noble name and stature, sure. He loved lording it over others and making them do things for him. But he hated the man he derived such privilege from.   
“You humble me, Master,” the Argonian bowed their head deeply before him.   
“Tch, I don't own any of this,” Alvas said, again merely offering a dismissive flick of the wrist as his eyes began to close once more. “I have better things to do than micromanage animals.”   
“...Of course, sera.”


End file.
